Page 67 of Pen Pal

He wiped his finger against the blood, swirling the crimson liquid against my skin before pressing it to his tongue.

A shudder wracked his body. His pupils dilated, his breath hitching like he’d just taken a hit of something intoxicating.

I should’ve been horrified. Butinstead? I was soaked.

He exhaled shakily, staring at me with pure, unfiltered possession. “You taste like you were made for me.”

He turned the blade on himself, pressing it against his chest. My stomach clenched as he dragged it down, cutting deeply enough for blood to trickle freely. He hissed, the pain sharp and real, but it didn’t slow or stop him.

He reached for me, fingers smearing our combined blood together, mixing it, binding it. Then, he pushed two blood-slicked fingers into my mouth.

“Swallow,” he ordered, voice raw with arousal.

I did. The taste of him, of us, flooded my senses. My soul fractured, and my body burned. Something inside me snapped, and I knew that I would never be whole without him again.

He groaned, pushing deeper inside me as if he could crawl into my skin and live there.

“You’re mine,” he rasped, blood dripping on my breasts, painting me like a canvas. His mouth crashed into mine, swallowing every gasp, every moan. The mixture of blood, sweat, and sin melded into something unholy.

A monster, a bride, a dark god, and his sacrifice.

He plucked at my clit, merciless in his quest to bring me over the edge, and I shattered into a million pieces, a liquid inferno burning me from the inside out, a blaze that not even an entire ocean could extinguish. I screamed, Mark’s blood rippling around me as I writhed, bursting.

Enzo stilled inside me, breathless and completely lost, his seed spurting, marking me as his and only his as his hot release flooded me.

Then he pressed his lips against mine, consuming me.

26

Enzo

The bedroom reeked of sex and blood. Amara was a wet, sticky mess of blood and slick, slumped, and exhausted. She winced, clearly aching from our raw passion and still dazed.

I reached for my pants, digging my cell phone out. The screen cracked when Mark kicked me, but it still worked. I called my henchmen, who were always ready to help out the Ricci family.

“Boss?” one replied.

“13 Amos Drive, Lockwood,” I informed. “Total cleanup. How long until the crew’s here?”

“It’s a ten-minute drive, Mr. Ricci,” the man stated. “I can get them in the cleaner van and head to you right away.”

“You do that, and bring me some clothes and the morning-after pill,” I ordered, hanging up as I turned to my pen pal.

Amara’s eyelids fluttered, fighting the sleep that begged to drag her under. I bent, scooping her up in my arms, carrying her to her bathroom. The fucking door was missing, but my men wouldn’t come in here without my permission.

I set her on her feet, turning the shower on as she leaned into me, unable to hold her whole weight in her current state.

I brushed my fingers over her bruises, cuts, and bloodstains. “All mine,” I murmured possessively, eager to worship her.

I tested the water, and when it was hot enough, I dragged her inside the stall, shutting the door behind us. The water cascaded over us, soothing my sore muscles and washing away the evidence that Mark ever existed.

I took a washcloth and lathered it with soap, kneeling before my little pen pal. I slowly ran the cloth over her feet, working my way up, gently cleaning away any evidence of tonight. My hands ghosted over her curves, and I kissed every bruise, cut, and scrape.

She shuddered, but it wasn’t from fear. I knew it was from something deeper; myclaim, my obsession, and my care. Her eyes softened as she watched me, rivers of blood snaking down the drain as I washed her hair.

“No one else will ever touch you again,” I vowed.

I heard multiple footsteps rush up the stairs, and I knew my men had arrived. One of them gasped and cursed, and I chuckled. Most of the men were used to my antics, so one of them must be new.

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